


To Be Without

by serenililly



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cheating, Complete, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Pregnancy, Reader-Insert, Swearing, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-28 08:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17179220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenililly/pseuds/serenililly
Summary: Funny how the world can shift in an instant. How you approached your bedroom with excitement only to walk away with a life forever changed.





	1. Chapter 1

“No, no, nonono, Y/N!! Y/N! Shit, _shit_!"

You bruised your shoulder hard on the way out the bedroom door. The skin there would probably turn a nasty color, blacken from the broken layers of tissue. Maybe underneath your shirt it would bleed, making a stain that would never come out.

It didn't matter. You were already bruised. You were already broken. You were already bleeding and stained.

“Y/N, stop! Y/N!”

What was it like, to feel? To want anything? Despite the voice pleading behind you, despite the way your feet kept on, one after the other, you didn't want to stop or to go. There was only the rush of nothing as the front door drew closer, as you clutched your purse strap, still slung across your shoulder from your entry only a few minutes ago.

It was his hand, digging into the place where the new bruises were forming that made you feel. You yelped at the pain, but every other reaction was slow. Was it really you screaming? You didn’t feel connected to your body. Your turn towards him was sluggish.

He was naked, wet cock quickly gone limp. You looked at it, shriveling up in front of him. You looked at his face, red and dotted with sweat.

What was it like to feel?

You thought you knew not an hour ago. When your doctor encouraged you to smile and celebrate. When she handed you back the little stick you’d tried to shove into her hands, saying she didn't need it. When they’d run tests of their own, made you pee in a tiny, plastic cup, and happily told you there was a baby growing in your belly. Six weeks now. You’d left with your stick and your vitamins and the faintest smile.

Your fingers pressed into the soft flesh of your stomach. Was there a baby there? You couldn't feel anything. Your baby. Yoongi’s baby. Maybe it didn’t really exist. Maybe your visit had never really happened.

“Y/N, I swear.” His voice trembled with fear, scratched with desperation. He fell to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your waist. His words began pouring out, begging you to stay, to listen to him. But you had no words, only vaguely noticing the black head of hair in front of you. Had he always been like that: so ready to plead? You couldn’t remember anything beyond his name.

“I swear this was an accident, I swear. It'll never happen again, Y/N. Please. Please talk to me, please. Don’t leave, you have to listen to me.”

What was it like to hear? Could your baby hear? Could it feel the way the cracks were spidering across your heart, the deafening silence as it crumbled inside your chest? As Yoongi started to sob in front of you.

Could it hear the way he’d talked to her while you walked down the hall? _Take it deeper you fucking slut_ , he’d said. Did your baby know what a slut was?

You blinked once, twice. Then reached down and opened your purse. You tugged out the little plastic stick, still wrapped stupidly in its sandwich bag, still showing that deep, pink plus sign. You practically dropped it onto him, letting it fall to his chest where he leaned back from you in surprise and grabbed it.

Looked at it.

Looked at you.

What was it like to want anything?

You left him kneeling there staring between you and what was supposed to be the start of your future. You left his shriveled cock, still wet and shining from whatever lie between the legs of the woman still in your bedroom.

You left your apartment altogether. Unable to want. Unable to feel.

You were already bruised. You were already broken.


	2. Chapter 2

“Y/N? Oh my god, Y/N!” 

The time that passed between you leaving your apartment and somehow making the long walk across town to Jinah’s building was marked by an expansive nothing, a muted gray without light or sound or cognizance. You didn't remember any stumbling through the streets, as if you were teleported here alongside a shapeless, empty dream. But you weren't surprised when you saw her face. Who else would you have turned to, even if you were practically unconscious?

When she opened her door, calling your name in surprise, the world’s colors started to bleed back in. The fresh, hay-colored blonde of her bleached hair that brushed along her shoulders as she quickly pulled you inside. The dark pink rug set just beyond the door, fluffy strands of it pressed beneath her bare feet. The vibrant orange and pale ivory of her cat, Pang, as he tipped his head back, looking at you upside down from his comfortable spot on the couch. He trilled at your noisy steps as you walked past your friend into her place. You heard the door snap shut behind you.

“Y/N! What the hell happened?”

You caught a glimpse of yourself in a decorative mirror hanging on her wall. Your hair was ruffled in every direction. Streaks of watered-down mascara were smudged all around your eyes, your cheeks. Your fingers desperately clutched the strap of your purse as if you were holding on for dear life.

You made it halfway into the living room before you collapsed to your knees and screamed, wailed so loud your whole body shook with the force. You weren’t sure when you stopped screaming. Only that at some point, screams melted into sobs, turned to heaving, choking tears as reality finally caught up with you, crashing into your body like a derailed train.

Cheating. He was cheating.

Jinah didn’t say a word. She was on the floor in front of you, arms around your body, squeezing you tight to her chest.

Your best friend since junior high asked nothing, only held you quietly as you cried. Squeezed you tight as you shook through your sobs, as you howled moans filled with incomprehensible betrayal onto her living room floor.

You gulped a breath at some point, the noises from you receding. You could hear the television in the background, whatever show she’d been watching when you showed up playing quietly on the screen. You saw Pang poking his head around the side of the couch, eyes like glassy, orange marbles peering at you with curiosity.

“Y/N, can you talk?” Jinah asked in the gentlest voice. “Can you speak? Do I need to call an ambulance?” You felt her body lean back just a little, enough to let her eyes meet yours. “Just nod if you can. Nod for emergency,” she spoke, so practiced, so slowly.

You realized while she was holding you she had been checking your vitals, looking for signs of trauma, blood, anything out of place. Emergency, like the place where she worked as a nurse in rough twelve hour shifts.

Emergency.

The image of Yoongi, bent over the side of your bed, ramming his cock over and over into that woman. Your body shook violently. It felt like an emergency, but you didn’t nod.

“Pregnant,” you said. Your voice was dry, the raw fire of your throat making the words sound like dust. The screaming had done that. The screaming that was still going inside your head.

“Preg-? Y/N, you’re pregnant?”

“Cheating,” you said, quieter than you knew was possible. Cheating. He was cheating. Yoongi was-

“Cheating?” she repeated.

The word burned your mouth as it came out, like reams of lava spouting across your lips. It felt wrong, poisonous. You felt blindsided, like a great stone hammer had swung at you from the sky, knocking you into nothing. You and your baby. Yoongi’s baby.

The crying started again.

Jinah didn’t ask any questions, just kept holding you. When you had quieted again she left your side, pulling you onto her couch when she returned before draping a blanket over your body. She made you drink a few sips of water and stroked your hair in silence. Jinah the saint, you thought as darkness wrapped you up and forced you to shut down. Vaguely, you remembered her checking on you throughout the night, offering you more water and stroking your forehead.

* * *

The urge rumbled through your body and your eyes snapped open. You didn’t remember moving. One moment you were staring at the barely lit ceiling of Jinah’s living room, the next you were face first over the rim of her toilet, puking up your very existence.

You heard her run in, felt as she brushed her fingers through your hair while you heaved up nothing. Emergency.

“I’m gonna call your mom,” when your stomach had stopped its spasms and she stood.

You didn’t respond. The gray was falling back over you, the ocean blues and crisp whites of her bathroom fading away again, the rays of sunlight streaming in through the window dimming out of existence. It must’ve been morning already. Had time kept passing?

You curled up next to the toilet. The cool floor of the bathroom felt good against your cheek. Pang joined you at some point, dragging his rough tongue across your skin to lick away the sweat on your forehead.

You heard when she must’ve plugged in your long-dead phone and turned it on. Notifications pinged over and over again, for at least a minute straight. Then the ringing started, your ringtone blaring. With her bedroom just across the hall, you could hear it all.

“Scumbag,” you heard Jinah mutter. Then she must’ve answered.

“Y/N! Y/N, where are you?? I’ve been calling all night!” He was shouting so loud you could hear even without the speakerphone. You brought your knees to your chest, willing his voice to stop. _Deeper you fucking slut_ , he’d said with that same voice. The nausea was already rolling back through your gut.

“You're scum, Min Yoongi! Garbage. You stay away from her, you hear me? Die in a fire!”

“Jinah?! Jinah, is Y/N with you?”

“Don’t call her,” she said, hissing out the last letter. “If I see you I'm gonna fucking kill you!”

The call ended. And with the vicious way she’d said the words, you could be certain Yoongi felt the truth of her threat through the phone.

You heard Jinah a minute later on a call with your mom, saying you were having a rough time and staying with her for a while. You couldn’t hear your mom, but you could imagine. She had never been sure about your relationship with Yoongi. An aspiring producer, he had no real job in her eyes. She wouldn’t be disappointed if you broke up. Would you break up? Another sob snuck from between your lips and Pang meowed next to your head in commiseration.

The phone didn’t ring again. Later, Jinah told you she’d blocked his number. But you found out quickly, that call had been all the hint he needed to act, threat or no.

You heard him not twenty minutes later, banging at her front door, his hoarse voice calling your name. Jinah’s footsteps were so heavy, you felt the floorboards shake.

“Fuck you, Yoongi,” you heard her shout through the intercom. “If you’re not gone in one minute I’m calling the cops! I hope they beat you to death!!”

“Jinah, stop fucking around. I know she’s here, let me in!”

“Eat shit!”

“She’s pregnant, Jinah. Did she tell you? I have to see her, please. Please, I’m so sorry, _please_ !” He was crying again, fists battering the door. “ _Please_.” You heard her footsteps again, stomping back towards her room.

She stopped at the bathroom on her way back, a metal baseball bat clutched in her hand when she peeked into the bathroom.

You had sat up by then, shoulder leaning against the rim of the toilet. You didn’t know how you looked, but Jinah grimaced and glared down the hall towards her front door.

“I’m going to break his fucking kneecaps.” In seventh grade, she had punched Taehwon so hard he lost a tooth. In college, she had yanked on Siyoung’s extensions hard enough that half her real hair came out with them. You knew she wasn’t joking.

“Don’t,” you coughed.

“I’ll never forgive him for doing this to you.”

“Y/N, please! Jinah, let me in!!!” More sobs, more desperate pounding of his fists.

“I want to hear.”

“No,” she dropped the bat and stepped into the bathroom, kneeling in front of you. “You don’t need to see him right now. I’m just going to call the cops.”

“I want to hear what he has to say.” It felt like a small thing, to listen. It proved you were still there, still able to react.

Jinah bit the inside of her cheek.

“Alright. Alright, if you’re sure. Just...let me clean you up.”

She took a makeup wipe to your face, clearing away the stains from the day before, then wiping over again a warm, damp towel. She straightened your hair, brushing over it with her fingers into what you assumed was a presentable state.

She picked up the bat and walked in front of you while you made your way down the hall.

“I’ll break his fucking back, Y/N, I swear. You deserve so much better.”

“Please, just let me hear him out.”

You didn’t know what you expected to hear. Nothing could change what you’d seen, what you’d heard or felt. Nothing he had to say could fix that. But still, you wanted to hear it. From his mouth.

She yanked open the door and Yoongi fell inside, as if he had been sitting with his back pressed to the door. He scrambled to his feet and looked at Jinah, past her to where you stood.

You didn’t know hearts could break more than once.

You clutched your shoulder, as if the pain of bruising it the day before was only triggered again at the sight of him. His black t-shirt hung loosely on his shoulders, the dark circles under his reddened eyes deeper, more purple than you’d ever seen them.

“Y/N…” he said in a whisper.

Your name coming from his mouth sounded like a gunshot, the word, each letter searing through your chest like molten drops of lead.

Would every word hurt like this? You wanted to hear him, wanted to know what he could possibly have to say to you. But would those words shred you from the inside, cutting through you like hot knives, opening more wounds that would never heal?

It didn’t matter. After all, you were already bleeding. Your heart was already stained.


	3. Chapter 3

You had agreed to listen. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much just looking at him made you want to curl into a ball and disappear, you wanted to hear whatever he had to say. What he could possibly have to say.

But Yoongi was silent for a long while, wordlessly sitting across from you at Jinah’s tiny dining room table. After all that pounding and sobbing, he simply stared at you with bleary eyes, hands shaking, face pale and pinched. The silence felt threatening, as if all the words that needed to be said were floating around above both your heads, heavy and deathly sharp, waiting for the perfect moment to fall. To scatter across the table and cause more bruises and more bleeding.

Jinah had made herself scarce, promising that she would only be in her bedroom while you talked, if you needed her. You could make out her silhouette in a small mirror just over Yoongi’s shoulder, giving away her position in the hallway, bat still in hand. Yoongi could see her too if he looked up, you were sure. But he didn’t seem to care. His eyes stayed glued to you.

At first, he’d reached across the table for your hands, as if holding them would give him the courage to start speaking. When you flinched away from his outstretched fingers, instead laying your hands in your lap, you saw the pain of that rejection ripple across his face, felt the sting of his touch without even connecting.

“Y/N, I’m so, so sorry,” he said at last. Some part of you felt bad for him. Even if it made no sense, even though he had hurt you this way, it still managed to bother you seeing him this upset, looking this distraught.

But it wasn’t right. He had done this, you reminded yourself. He hurt because of himself. You hurt because of him.

“You’ve said that.” Your voice was quiet, calmer than you had expected. Maybe some of the numbness was still there. Or maybe having him in front of you made it all too real, made it something you had to accept, something you had to deal with. “I’ve heard that you’re sorry, Yoongi. Do you have anything else to say?”

His hands went to his dark hair, ruffling it at the sides in frustration. He leaned forward onto his elbows, pressing his forehead against his hands.

“I fucked up. I know I fucked up. There’s nothing I can do to fix that, I know that. I’m so sorry.” He said the words like he’d been repeating them for a long time. Maybe not since yesterday. Maybe since it had started, he had already been apologizing to you. But he did it anyway, you reminded yourself.

You could admit that you and Yoongi’s relationship had never been perfectly smooth. You argued about the same things every couple argued about. Money. Time. Attention. Little things too. The way he never cleaned up his dishes. The several times you forgot the keycode and locked yourself out of the apartment. His cold feet brushing against your legs in the middle of the night.

But you loved him in spite of and even for all those things. Loved him enough to accept your role as the main breadwinner while he struggled for his dreams, his passions. Loved him enough to never stop believing in his talents. Loved him enough to be happy to start a family with him, even if your mom wouldn't approve, even if after three years of dating he hadn’t shown any interest in marriage.

Not one day went by where you didn’t speak, where he hadn’t called you if he was busy at his small studio space downtown and told you how much he loved you, sometimes directly, sometimes in his own way. You’d never doubted his love, even if it was just leaving you most of the leftover Chinese in the fridge or filling your thermos with hot tea before he locked himself inside the tiny closet he worked in at home. It was more than enough for you to stay.

You swallowed back a sob.

So why wasn’t that enough for him? Why hadn’t you been enough?

“Why?” Your voice broke on the word, giving up your real question. Why hadn’t you been enough?

“It was a mistake, I swear to god, a stupid, stupid mistake. It had nothing to do with you at all, I was just...I just...”

You stayed quiet, refusing to look at him now, instead training your focus on the swirling grain of the little wooden table. A mistake. A stupid mistake. You didn’t remember missing any of your birth control pills. Or had you? Had you made a stupid mistake as well? You swallowed hard.

“Y/N, I’m an idiot. I love you so much, I just made a bad choice and-”

“How long?” You looked up with the question, already tired of seeing the pain on his face. Was it wrong to be bitter that he was hurting too? You wanted to stay bitter for now, dug your heels into it.

“On…”

You saw the lie forming before he moved his lips. Yoongi had always been a terrible liar, every tell bleeding through the features of his round face.

But he stopped himself. He’d wanted to lie, but he didn't.

Once? Only once, he’d been about to say. It could’ve only been a lie. It couldn’t have been once, only once.

Not when he was so shy during sex your first time, so quiet the first few times. Not when it took four months of sleeping together for him to lose himself in the act and finally say a few dirty words. Not when it took a few prodding conversations after that until you learned how much he liked pulling your hair and calling you names that would make anyone blush. And he knew you knew that.

“How long?” you repeated and a little of the bitterness seeped into your tone.

He was crying again, hands back in his hair. “Three times. Just three times, I swear. But I swear I won't ever do it again, Y/N. I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, please.” His words were so desperate, begging your attention. But your mind couldn’t push away the image now burned into your retinas, the outline of it all that prodded your nausea whenever you closed your eyes.

Him, in your bed. Sleeping with some other woman in your bed, while you were working, thinking he was in his office making calls, networking, and creating music as he loved.

“Please don’t cry, please. I love you. I love you so much.”

You were surprised when you felt the fat tears falling onto your hands, settling into the lines along the wood of the table. You would’ve thought you’d been crying the whole time.

“I swear, Y/N, I swear I’ll never-” he choked on the words, tears welling in his eyes, his throat. Presumably from the sight of you. He’d never been good at watching you cry. “Stupid, I’m so stupid. I never, ever wanted to hurt you like this. I just got caught up in-”

“Who is she?”

“A singer I met at the studio last year. I’m-I’m writing a song for her and we all got drunk one night and I-I just...and then-”

“Stop!” Your stomach lurched. You thought you’d been strong enough, but you really didn’t want to hear more. It was enough, too much. You could feel the fire climbing your throat as your body was shredded from inside to out. You sucked in a ragged breath. It was an emergency.

You shot up from the table, knocking your chair backward with the force and throwing yourself over the edge of Jinah’s sink just in time to be sick again. Water. Stomach acid. It tasted almost as bad as you felt. Jinah was there in a flash, pushing Yoongi back and holding you, rubbing your side and speaking some cooing gibberish that you couldn’t bother to make out over the sound of your dry heaving.

Yoongi had stood, had made to come after you. You didn’t miss that movement. But the bitterness was still there, washing across your tongue like acrid lashings of truth. You hadn’t been enough. And now, he couldn’t be enough. There wasn’t enough trust left to save this. Only the metallic taste of acid and blood and pain.

Jinah helped you sit back down in your chair. Yoongi was still standing, unsure what to do, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and her. But your friend didn’t leave this time, standing next to your chair instead, just in case.

“I've listened enough,” you said, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

“Y/N, I'm willing to do whatever it takes. I know I've broken your trust, I'm sorry, I’m so, so sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you like this. But I swear it was a mistake. I’ll never hurt you that way again, I swear it.”

He was on his knees in front of you, whining, pleading, hands pressed together.

“I want to be with you, only ever you. You're...you're pregnant with our baby? I want to be here for both of you.” His hands started to reach for yours again, towards your stomach. As if he had any right.

You smacked his shaking fingers, shooting up again from your seat, legs betraying you and making you sway unsteadily. Jinah’s hands were at your waist then, balancing you. But all you could see was red, blood red, and clear tears, and gray nothing.

“I’m not having it.”

He opened and closed his mouth several times, still kneeling in front of you, eyes on your stomach.

“W-what?” he said, finally tilting his head up to look at you.

“I’m not having your baby,” you said. The words were laced with it all. Everything you had felt in the last day pouring out of you in burning waves. “I don’t want any kind of reminder of our life together. We’re through.”

“Y-you can’t be serious!”

“Y/N-” Jinah said softly, but her voice was quickly drowned out by Yoongi’s.

“Baby, no! Please, don’t-”

“I was so happy when I missed that period,” you said through fresh tears. How could you have any tears left at this point? “I thought about her growing inside me.”

“Her?”

“I know it’s a girl, I can feel it,” you sniffled. “I could already see her pretty face. Smiling with your gums, playing piano with your hands.”

Your fingers pressed deep against your stomach as you said a silent apology to the life inside you that could never be. You weren’t sure when you’d decided, somewhere between screaming in Jinah’s arms and watching him there on the floor. But you couldn’t have her, you wouldn’t.

“I can’t look at her every day and remember you. Remember what you did to me.”

“You’re...you’re not even going to give me a chance?” He scrambled up to his feet, taking a step towards you and you flinched backward, as if he’d made to hit you. The movement made him stop cold.

“Y-Y/N, I fucked up, just this once. But it meant nothing, it didn’t mean anything! Please don’t throw away our life together like this. We’ve been together so long, if we just take some time-”

“I can’t,” you screamed and he backed up, eyes going wide. “You’ll do it again.” You were sobbing again, words barely audible around the tears choking up your throat. “I don’t have any more heart left for you to break. If you hurt me like this again-”

“I won’t. Y/N, I swear.” His voice was breaking on every other word, scratching against your ears. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. “It’s you I love, I swear it on my life. Please don’t do this, please.”

“Leave, please,” you said. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

The silence ballooned inside the apartment, overbearing and weighing on your body and your heart. You put your face in your hands, letting more tears fall. It had to be this way. It had to.

“Yoongi,” Jinah said with the same quiet patience she’d given you last night. “It’s probably better if you just go.”

“We’re...you’re…” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Come on Yoongi, don’t make me really call the cops. Just go.” You could feel her waving her arm, shaking her hand at him, motioning him to leave.

“No, this...this conversation isn't over. You can’t just make a decision like that in less than a day. Y/N, you're, you're not thinking right. You’re still upset, you’re-”

You took a step forward, swinging your arms at him, pushing him backward, watching him stumble back over the carpet of Jinah’s living room. Pang went running, darting behind him to hide somewhere under the couch from the sudden chaos.

You held up and accusatory finger. “You don’t get to tell me how I’m thinking or feeling or anything else, Min Yoongi!”

“Listen, please. We can work this out, please. You can’t just ki-kill our baby-"

“YOU killed her!” You were screaming again, the words falling out of your mouth like rusty knives, knicking your wounds over and over again with each syllable. Your words, not his, making you bleed. “The minute you decided I wasn’t enough, that what we had wasn’t enough. The minute you stuck your cock into whoever that s-stupid bi-bitch…” You lost momentum, succumbing to another shuddering wave of tears. Yoongi didn’t move, frozen in his spot. There were too many emotions on his face, none that you wanted to deal with. You wiped your eyes quickly. “You killed our future, Yoongi. Leave, I don’t want to see you.”

It took an eon. He stood there staring at you, holding your stare for what felt like the expanse of eternity.

Then he turned around without another word.

And he left.

Closed Jinah’s door behind him gently. And he was gone.

You fell to the floor, crashing onto your knees before falling over on your side. Your hands were shaking as you brought them to your face, trembling fingers catching each new-fallen tear.

Pang didn’t come out from under the couch for a long while.


	4. Chapter 4

You stayed with Jinah for a week. The first four days blended together, as if your life had melted into nothing, forming a slurry of your existence that had no makeup, no solidity. Those days were the easiest.

Jinah took care of you while you floated inside yourself. She made sure you ate a little food, drank a little water. She made sure you called your boss and got approved to take the week off. Severely ill, you remembered her coaching you to say. And she tried her best not to bother you, to ask you anything too difficult. She didn’t say a word about what had happened in her little kitchen.

The fifth day you woke up sore, your body weak and aching, as if you had been in a boxing match with some great champion. You woke up to your surroundings: Jinah’s pretty, little apartment, her laundry laid across the drying rack near the couch, Pang silently swaying into the kitchen to nibble from his bowl.

The living room was quiet, only the ambient sounds of appliances humming to keep you company. Orange reams of sunlight were streaming in through the half-drawn blinds of her living room window. Jinah must have left not long ago for her night shift. You lifted yourself from her couch with great effort and slowly shambled to the bathroom, squinting as you flicked on the light.

You stared into the mirror, at a face you hardly recognized. Gaunt, hollow, and above all else, sad. Your eyes were puffy, as they had probably been for days while you had cried uncontrollably and without fully understanding why.

Wearing a spare pair of Jinah’s pajamas, you let your eyes wander down your body, to the sliver of skin that showed between the top and pants. You lifted the shirt, studied your belly. It didn’t look much different than usual, but you knew what was brewing inside. You could feel it, had felt it every time you ran to the bathroom and hurled up your guts.

Your baby. Yoongi’s baby.

The three days that followed were the hardest. More than cry, you had to face your decisions, the reality of what had happened, of the end of your relationship, of losing the man you had loved without fail for three years.

You wanted to crawl back into the nothing, to hide from your feelings, from facing the truth, but it was too late. Your consciousness was awake again, staring you down with each passing minute and reminding you that hell was here and now. You cried, wondering each time how you managed to have any tears left. You grieved for what you had lost. And for what you were planning to give up.

Jinah told you she would support whatever decision you made, but thought you should at least have some counseling to make sure. You told her you would think about it, thanked her for being the best friend anyone could ask for, and apologized for cramping her apartment. She just joked that you owed her a sweet vacation somewhere tropical and told you to take care of yourself.

The next week, with some borrowed clothes from Jinah and your purse in hand, you left to stay with your mom. Her house was much farther from the city than your or Jinah’s apartments, but she was more than eager to have you stay. She drove you to the train station each morning and picked you up each night, so that you could get back and forth to work.

Life had to, impossibly, go on and you had reluctantly accepted that fact, trying to regain some normalcy somewhere in the shattered pieces of your life.

Your mom of course said she enjoyed the company, tired of living alone in your childhood home after your dad had passed away a few years ago. And she couldn’t have been happier to hear that you were pregnant, giving you all the advice she could think of from when you were a baby and already eager to babysit as often as you needed.

You didn’t have the courage to tell her what you’d planned. You barely had the courage to tell yourself, ignoring the inevitable conversation, not yet ready to take the painful trip to your doctor’s office.

At the end of the first week with your mom, you found her sitting in the living room, cross-legged on the floor with stacks of pictures spread out before her on the low, wooden coffee table.

“Having you here and talking about your baby got me a little nostalgic,” she said when she noticed you watching her. “I decided to pull out some old pictures of you when you were little. I want to try scrapbooking them.”

You laughed, a little surprised that you still could. She wouldn’t. Your mother had never been one to follow through with her little projects, always getting distracted by the next crafty thing she found on Pinterest. But you spent most of the day with her on that floor, listening to her tell stories about you when you were a curious baby and a mischievous toddler, pointing out each picture that led to another story of you with cake on your face or mud in your hair. Her memories made your doubts grow bigger and heavier and you decided you wanted her to know what you had planned to do. Whether to ease your guilt from making the decision or just to hear someone else’s thoughts about it besides your own, you weren’t sure.

“Mom, I was thinking about not having the baby.” You didn’t look at her, couldn’t. But your mom didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, of course you have that choice, honey.”

“But...now I’m not sure. I feel like having her will only hurt me, will only remind me of what happened. But I also feel like it’s something I’ll regret. I’m so confused and angry and...it just hurts.” Your words didn’t really make sense, didn’t really explain anything. But it was a good reflection of how you had been feeling since the day you left Yoongi kneeling on the floor. Hurt. Lost.

Rather than answer you, your mother just put her arms around you. She held you like you were a kid again, rocking you slightly and cradling you against her chest. And even though you felt like your tears were already long dried up, you cried again, cried into her shoulder, heaving sobs while she just stroked your hair.

And having her hold you and kiss your head and tell you how much she loved you unlocked a little of the tightness that had been filling your chest since the night Yoongi closed that door behind him.

“I know that boy hurt you,” your mom spoke after a long quiet. “But that baby is half of you as well. He might have broken your heart, but your baby was made when it was full of love.”

You cried more. She was right after all. And after sleeping in your old bed that night, you woke up with fresh eyes, slowly unraveling the thoughts that had been plugged up in your head. One by one, they unlocked, the muddled emotions your heart had been trying to make sense of finally giving you an ounce of clarity.

So you kept your appointments. You grew rounder and more swollen each day, reminding yourself constantly of your mother’s words. It was love growing inside you. And you decided you would love her without prejudice, exactly like she deserved.

Two months later, when you finally left your mother’s house and returned to your apartment, you sort of wished you never had.

Everything looked normal really, until you reached the little closet Yoongi had turned into his at-home studio. The cheap, wood door was hanging open, splintered and smashed right through. Expensive sound equipment, microphones, headphones, mixing electronics. Ripped, cut, broken to pieces. Computer screens smashed. The window into his soul was there, staring at you from that pile of ruined electronics.

His clothes were still hanging in the closet of your bedroom, but you could tell he hadn’t been there for a while. It seemed like your apartment had been a ghost town for weeks.

You stood in the hall in front of his mess unsure of what to do. Memories of what you both had together were everywhere, hanging neatly on the walls, in each little bit of decor. You finally made your way to the living room and sat on the couch.

From there you could see the little movie collection you had built together next to the television. A picture of you both stuffing your faces with cotton candy at a festival sat on top of the end table. You’d kept it, framed it because of the way he was smiling, the way his eyes had sparkled in the flash. It had made you so happy. His slippers were next to the couch, the extra thick ones you’d bought him because his feet were always so cold.

You cried long and hard on that couch, surrounded by what you had built for three long, mostly happy years. You wondered if the tears would ever stop, so tired of the bouts of your jumbled emotions spilling out onto your cheeks at a moment’s notice.

Jinah came over later that night to help you pack your things. It was for the best, you’d decided. You needed to get out of there, to get away from your memories and start on a path towards healing from this mess. Besides, you didn’t know where Yoongi was and he clearly didn’t want you to know. It was probably best this way, for you to just disappear from each other’s lives.

“It probably sounds vain after what I said to him,” you said, speaking your thoughts as you shoved yet another picture frame into a box you had labeled “Do Not Open” in thick, black marker. “But I’m really surprised that he hasn’t tried to call me, even once.” You bit your lip, allowing yourself to fall back into old habits and fret just a little. “I hope he’s alright.”

Jinah suddenly froze, hands pausing over the box she was stuffing full of decorative pillows. “Oh my god, Y/N. I-I blocked his number from your phone,” she said, then dropped the pillows she was holding and gasped. “Oh shit, that first night you came to my place! I was so angry at him when he called. I blocked it immediately. I’m sure it’s still blocked on your phone, oh my god. I’m so sorry!”

You were already grabbing for your phone from the coffee table, scrolling through the setting and seeing his name and number there. You undid the block, confirmed the new settings. Your phone went berserk. There were almost 40 blocked voicemails, each one flooding through from some separate, hidden inbox. All from him. Your mouth fell open.

You let them all play, the pain in your heart expanding with each one.

Him crying, only crying into the phone until the message time ran out. Him cooing romantically about how much he loved you, how you deserved so much better than him. Him begging you take him back, swearing that you were meant to be together, that he wanted to marry you. Apology after apology, recounting what an idiot he had been, how he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, how guilty he felt. Him begging you to keep the baby.

Him telling you he was going to stay with a friend for a while if you wanted to come home and get your things. Him reading you lyrics he’d written, about how awful he felt, about how amazing you were, about how he hated himself for hurting you, how he loved you, loved your baby. Message after message, a rollercoaster of his emotions over the weeks you had been apart.

And the most recent, from only three days ago. A song.

He couldn't sing for shit, but the music. The lyrics. About how he had taken his own limb and torn it off. About how he bled, lived on still bleeding. About the flower he had let drift downstream, too late in reaching for it only to fall into the water and drown. All laid over the most bittersweet music you had ever heard, each note burying itself between the cracks in your heart.

Jinah sobbed with you on the living room floor for an hour.

His song had apparently been his last effort to reach you. You hadn’t received anything else since unblocking his number. After you had your things moved out, it took you another two weeks to work up the courage to text him.

You sat on your new couch, feet tucked underneath you as you stared at your phone, eyeing the message for at least half an hour before forcing yourself to press the send button.

 **Y/N** _: I’m having her._

You threw the phone across the cushions, as if it would burn your hands if you held it any longer. You stared at it, regretting your every decision. Would he even respond? What would you say if he did? What if he called? Would you answer? Could you? You bit the inside of your cheek.

You jumped when your phone started ringing less than a minute later. You let it ring at first, unable to move, unsure if you wanted to. After two more rings, you grabbed it and took a shaky, deep breath. Then you pressed the little green button to accept his call.

“Really? Are you really?” he said, breathless, as if he’d just been running. If his heart was beating as fast as yours was, you weren’t surprised.

You nodded, though you knew he couldn’t see. “Yes.”

“Y/N,” he said.

Hearing him say your name was like wind chimes in a soft summer breeze, but also like a jackhammer pounding directly against your chest. You felt comforted and pained all at once and unsure what that feeling meant. You’d expected to be saddened, to still be burning with anger and attacked by his voice. But there was some other feeling there, curling inside your chest as you spoke with him for the first time in weeks. Something almost good.

“Will I...will you let me see her? C-can I be her dad?”

No begging you to take him back. No pushing to come see you. No apologies or excuses. Just him wanting to be a part of your child’s life. You shook your head at your selfishness. It wasn’t about just you anymore. She was made from both of you, your innocent baby. He had every right to be in her life, just as much as you did, no matter what had happened.

“...Yes,” you said after a while.

“Y/N...”

He asked, but didn’t insist, if he could go with you to your next appointment. He wanted to see her in your tummy, to watch her as she grew from appointment to appointment. He was cautious when he asked, as if he expected rejection. You agreed to let him come.

After you hung up, you sent him a picture of the sonogram from your last visit.

 **Yoongi** : _She’s beautiful._

It was all he text back.

He didn’t reach out to you after that call. You text him your doctor’s address and the date and time of your next appointment and he was there in the waiting room when you arrived. You grimaced at the sight of him, so thin he was almost sickly, the sharp edges of his jaw well-defined in the way that only happened when he forgot to eat regularly. He definitely hadn’t been doing that.

But there was so much joy in his eyes when you were called inside, when the doctor confirmed you were having a girl, when she pointed out her little toes and fingers forming. You’d never seen him smile so brightly. You signed up for parenting classes and delivery prep courses together. He was overeager, handling you like a priceless doll as you left. You had taken the train, but he drove you to your apartment and in the excitement of the moment, you ignored your bitterness. You let him come in.

“Do you need anything?” he asked after practically carrying you to your couch. “Can I do anything for you? Laundry, dishes, vacuum?”

“Yoongi, it’s still really early. I’m fine, I even plan to work all the way through. I’m fine, I promise.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, a little of the eagerness fading from the corners of his mouth. You could see the words, dancing around behind his eyes. But he stayed quiet and nodded, shuffling uncomfortably on his feet.

Yoongi, who used to kiss your fingertips while you lay together in bed. Who used to get so excited when he’d made a new track, hovering around you like an impatient bee while you listened, waiting eagerly for your feedback. Who used to smile so wide when you made him coffee before you went to bed, knowing he’d be staying up and working through the night.

The night that he’d sold his first song, that he knew his name was going to be on an actual, produced album, he’d taken you out and you’d both gotten so drunk celebrating that you fell into a puddle on the side of the road. And he’d carried you, dirty and wet, all the way home on his back.

Yoongi, who cheated on you, who broke your trust, tearing your heart into a million pieces.

You looked at him, _really_ looked at him like you hadn’t in months. None of those memories had gone. He’d hurt you, betrayed what you had in one of the worst ways possible. But before that moment, you’d loved him, unconditionally. And he’d loved you.

You thought about his voicemails. He still loved you.

The thoughts you had been turning over since you’d decided to keep your daughter, the thoughts that you’d been trying so hard to force down, came rushing back. It would’ve been one thing if he’d reacted any differently. Blamed you, blamed your relationship, blamed a lack of sex, a lack of love, anything at all.

But he’d only apologized, confessed that he’d made a bad choice, only begged for forgiveness for his mistake, cursed himself for fucking up, and swore he never would again.

And in that, you thought maybe you should be willing to listen. Instead of shutting down, instead of shutting him out like your wounded heart wanted you to, like the bitterness you’d clung to begged you to, you thought maybe you should be open to hearing him, to really, truly listen.

“Yoongi, if there’s something you want to say, I’m listening.”

He froze for a moment, then came to sit next to you on the couch, keeping his distance. He had his hands in his lap, wringing them together nervously before settling his gaze on you.

“Y/N, do you think you can you ever forgive me? Not because of the baby, but because I love you so much. I’ve been so sick after what I did to you. A-and even if you don’t lo…” he paused, clenching his jaw as if the words hurt to say. “Even if you don’t l-love me anymore and there’s not a future left for us together, at least...at least...” You could tell he wanted to say more, so much more that he’d probably been thinking about over and over since he left that night.

But he stopped himself, words trailing off as he gathered his thoughts. You were grateful for the pause, afraid of the overwhelming emotions welling in your chest. Of course you still loved him, how could you not? And you missed him, god you missed him. But forgiving him?

You didn’t know if it was possible, not yet, if ever. It felt like a foreign word, an unfamiliar concept.

He took in another breath and continued. “I know I don’t deserve to ask. I know I caused this, it was all me and my stupid decision. But I have to earn your forgiveness for what I did to you. I have to try.”

You brought your finger to your lips, biting your fingernail between your teeth while you thought.

One day you would have to talk. You would have to listen to the full story, to know exactly when and where and why he had strayed from you, had broken you both this way. You knew if you kept him in your life the conversation would be inevitable. The image you’d seen, the words he’d spoken to her were still burning, the memory still smoking in your mind, choking your heart.

You studied his pale skin, cheeks hollowed to sharpness, the sheen of his dark hair. You watched his hands, fidgeting in his lap while he spoke, while he watched you.

“Forgiveness,” you said quietly, flatly, more to yourself than to him, turning the word over and over in your mind, searching for a connection. He cleared his throat when you spoke.

“I know you letting me back into your life for our baby must’ve been so hard for you. But for me, it means the world. That you’re keeping her. That you’re letting me be in her life.”

He took another deep breath, as if he had been holding in all the words close to his heart, finally able to let them out, to let you hear them. He folded his hands in front of him, looking down at them instead of at you. You hadn’t moved from your spot on the couch, only processing his words, only listening.

“I just want a chance to make up for what I’ve done to you,” he said. “To us. Just a chance at forgiveness. If you’ll let me try.”

Was there any chance, however small, that you could rebuild the trust between you? You hadn’t let yourself consider it, had let the hurt, the betrayal consume your thoughts. But he was here and you were here and even though the pain was also still there, even though the memories of that day were still cut fresh into your mind, this had to have meant something. It had to have represented what you hadn’t allowed yourself to see for a long while.

Hope.

“Ok,” you said.

There were bruises and cuts between you, deep and open and still sore. But with hope you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could both start to heal.


End file.
